


In Pieces

by Feyland



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Death, Established Relationship, Grief/Mourning, Modern AU, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-20 02:28:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20220292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Feyland/pseuds/Feyland
Summary: People in their line of work get outlived.





	In Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for Major character death, death of a romantic partner, heart problems, major grief, alcohol, and hospitals.
> 
> This is...not a happy fic

Mornings like this are rare, the three of them lazily stretching out the process of waking up. It takes time - Jehan sleeps like a rock, not moving from their curled position even as Montparnasse stirs. Claquesous responds, though, his habitual light sleep broken the second Montparnasse inches into the curve of his torso, wrapping heavy arms around it. Rain echoes off the window panes, emphasizing the perfect kind of day to do nothing at all. 

Emphasizing how badly Montparnasse needs to pee. 

“I’ll be right back,” he groans, and with all the grace of a recently caught fish, attempts to roll over Claquesous, dragging half of the duvet with him. 

Claquesous’s breath is forced out of him as Montparnasse’s elbow makes contact with his gut, and he helps him out of the bed with a less than gentle shove, indignantly pulling the covers back up as Montparnasse tries to gain his balance. 

“Fucking freezing out here,” he complains, wrapping his arms around his bare torso and wanders off to the bathroom. 

Claquesous smiles, adjusting the duvet. It had been completely dragged off of Jehan during Montparnasse’s exit, and Claquesous marvels at their dedication to their dreams to not even notice its absence. They still don’t move as he carefully tucks it around them. He expects a sleepy sigh, at least, when his self-control fails and he reaches out to stroke their hair, but they don’t make a sound. They sleep like the dead.

Claquesous stops, his hand still resting on the tangled mess on their pillow. The bed is too still. He holds his breath, and the silence is only interrupted by his own heartbeat.

Jehan is still curled up with their back to him. He cannot see their face. Slowly, he reaches out again, brushing the hair away, and carefully lays his hand on their cheek. 

It’s cool. 

Something hard and electric freezes Claquesous there, unable to move past the possibilities rising up like bile in his throat. He can’t look, can’t confirm. Nothing is true until confirmed, and he refuses to be the one to turn his icy fear into reality. 

But if he doesn’t, Montparnasse will have to.

Letting out a shaky breath, Claquesous pushes himself up onto his knees. His hands are trembling - his hands never tremble. He feels weak, incapable, as he grips Jehan’s shoulder, and carefully rolls them towards him, onto their back. 

Their face is so pale. Their freckles look too dark against their skin, like the splatter done by a painter who hadn’t gotten their features quite right. Their head lulls heavily to the left, tilted at an unnatural angle towards him. Their eyes are half open. 

Claquesous’s paralysis breaks, and his insides start to burn. He tries to say their name, but nothing more than a broken croak comes out. His hands, growing more unsteady, grab at them, one at their throat, another digging for their wrist, feeling desperately for a pulse. His heart is hammering so hard - too hard. He can’t feel anything beyond his own blood rushing in his head. He has his hands on their chest, his hands on their stomach, his hands by their lips - he can’t feel their breath, he can’t feel their heart, he can’t feel anything, anything, anything -

Montparnasse is in the doorway, and Claquesous’s head whips towards him. He can’t speak. 

He doesn’t need to. 

***

They call an ambulance. It’s the first time they ever do. How many times have they needed one before? How many times has someone in Patron-Minette been stitched up on the kitchen table, or left to mend broken bones on their own? Patron-Minette does not call ambulances. 

Until Jehan. 

Claquesous makes the call but he can’t bring himself to say what he means.  _ I need an ambulance. My partner - they - they - not breathing.  _ The responder tells him to stay on the line. He hangs up. 

Montparnasse is trying to get them to breathe. Trying to pump their lungs full of his own breath. It hisses out of them as he pumps at their chest, counting to 30, trying again. He’s shouting, his eyes wild and pleading. 

_ Please, Jehan, please! Don’t do this, please just breathe, please, please, please! _

Claquesous can’t shout. He can’t breathe. Jehan doesn’t move and Claquesous is drowning. 

The EMTs arrive and he can’t remember if he let them in. They’re lifting Jehan onto a stretcher and they look like a rag doll. Montparnasse is still shouting.

_ Fix them! Fix them or I’ll fucking kill you!  _

Claquesous is following the gurney down the stairs. He’s following it to the ambulance. The EMTs won’t take Montparnasse. He’s still in his underwear and his face is red with tears and rage. He doesn’t stop swearing, doesn’t stop yelling.

“Take the car. I’ll meet you at the hospital,” Claquesous rasps, stepping up into the ambulance before the doors slam shut and the sirens start to scream overhead. It doesn’t replace the screaming in his ears. 

Claquesous sits in the corner, unable to touch Jehan while strangers try to revive them. 

Montparnasse drives too fast. 

***

An undiagnosed heart condition. 

Claquesous vaguely tries to piece together how Jehan could have made that poetic, but the threads of anything tangible disintegrate in the acid quickly coating his own heart. 

***

They spend too long in the hospital, far longer than necessary. Leaving feels like accepting. Like believing it into reality. Montparnasse has stopped yelling, and tears flow silently. Claquesous stares at the wall and wills the world to go as white. 

They leave only when Jehan does, once they’re told the family has come to have the body moved. Jehan hadn’t had any desire to introduce Montparnasse and Claquesous to their parents, and so the two men slip out once Jehan no longer rests in the building. It’s dark again, and still raining, and they say nothing on the drive home.

The flat is silent, and Montparnasse is angry. He bangs the door against the wall as it opens, and when he slams it shut again, the whole wall shakes. Stumbling into the kitchen, he yanks open a cabinet, fingers curling around the neck of the first bottle of liquor he finds. Claquesous trails him like a shadow, watching with an expression of nothingness. Montparnasse untwists the cap of the bottle and drops it onto the ground where it bounces into the dark corner. He throws back his head as he takes a long sip, coughing as he swallows. He takes another and stares at the bottle. He looks like he is contemplating the label, but Claquesous sees nothing moving behind his eyes. Without warning, Montparnasse lifts the bottle high and swings it into the kitchen cabinet. The bottle shatters, sending a shower of glass over the counter and the floor. Amber liquid runs down the cupboard and puddles on the floor. 

“FUCK!” he screams, letting the broken neck fall onto the floor. “FUCK! FUCK!” He rounds on Claquesous who lurks in the doorway. “And fuck you. FUCK YOU! It should have been one of us!”

People in their line of work get outlived. Jehan should have outlived. This pain should have been Jehan’s. 

“And you don’t even care, do you?” Montparnasse snarls, kicking glass aside as he takes a step towards Claquesous. “Dead-faced. Like this is something you can just put a mask over. Like it’s something to move on from.” He stops short of Claquesous, glaring at him, breathing hard. Lighting fast, he hand swings and he strikes Claquesous over the face. 

Claquesous moves with the blow, but doesn’t recoil. He straightens again, silent, watching Montparnasse watch him. 

“ _ Does it even matter to you? _ ” Montparnasse shouts, and slaps again, the crack louder than before. “ _ DID YOU EVEN LOVE THEM? _ ”

Montparnasse’s hand is caught mid-swing. Claquesous’s fingers are tight around his wrist, and he squeezes harder. Montparnasse is still pushing, trying to regain control of his arm, but the grip is iron-solid. 

“More than you will ever know.” Claquesous’s words are still choked, still half-alive. “More than I could ever say.” 

Montparnasse blinks hard, clearing some of his own tears away as he stares into Claquesous’s face. Tear stains paint the deep brown skin, the evidence hidden in the darkness. Montparnasse’s arm goes slack. He has never seen Claquesous cry before. 

Claquesous releases the arm, and it falls to Montparnasse’s side. Claquesous is the one to drag him in, pulling something living against his chest as though a connection of heart to heart could lessen the despair in his chest. 

It doesn’t work yet, but it might someday. 

**Author's Note:**

> ....sorry


End file.
